You sit glumly in a corner of your messy room. Glum doesn't begin to describe just how awful you feel. Your eyes are itchy, swollen and red. Your breath consists of shudders and gulps of air causing your shoulders to heave heavily. You rub your pale hand on your eyes for the millionth time that day to dry the stray tears from your unusual violet eyes. You never cry. At least, you don't remember crying this much before.

He didn't have to be so mean. Even if he was having a bad day, he didn't have to be so cruel and say what he did. You let a sob as you hear the heavy fall of something outside of your room and then him cursing at himself. You know he's sorry. You just pull up your legs to your chest and let the tears fall down freely, but without sobs as the sound of clumsy falling of objects and pitiful tantrums filling the atmosphere of the grand house.

You know he didn't mean it. It doesn't make it any less hurtful. Maybe if he'd said it in a nicer tone. Maybe if he'd spoken to you in a civilized manner like he always did, rather than yell at you with such force. Maybe you wouldn't feel so bad about it, like it's your fault that he has to be your guardian. Maybe, it's about time you picked up a different tone with him. Maybe things do have to be different like he said.

It's probably another hour before the house is completely quiet again, before he dares to stand in front of your door, hesitating before knocking. You, done with your wallowing, sit calmly on your bed with your cat Jaspers knitting a very simple scarf with faulty knots and ties, a beginner's work. You've already devised how you'll talk to him, you'll play him like a fiddle, well, maybe like the violin you tend to neglect. That sounds better. He knocks. You look up, though you know he hasn't opened the door.

"Rose, may I come in?" he asks from behind the door.

"Sure," you answer calmly as you keep up with your poor knitting skills. The door creaks open and he peeks in, still unsure of whether he should speak with you or not. Truth or not, it makes him feel guilty. After all, he's been with you since as far back as you can remember. You could have gone on believing he was your father the rest of your life if he hadn't slipped up like that. "I said you can come in. The door should be working fine."

He steps in cautiously, closing the door behind him, but not stepping towards you. You keep with your busy work even as Jaspers stretches over it, making it nearly impossible to move without earning a hiss. He clears his throat and you look up.

"Yes?" you ask. "Aren't you going to sit down? It looks uncomfortable to be standing there. You can sit there." You point to the opposite end of your bed from you. He shrugs, sighs and walks to sit to your indicated specifications. He's about to say something, stops, tries again, runs a hand through his hair and simply gives the heaviest sigh you've ever heard.

"I see," you say sarcastically. "Will that be all? I'm a very busy girl." He frowns and then looks at you.

"Rosalind, you are a twelve year old, home schooled girl, what could you possibly be busy with?"

You shrug and make an exaggerated face. "Maybe I'm planning to dethrone you, take over the house, giving jaspers all your fancy coats for scratching while getting away with murder right under your nose."

"Right," he answers. "Look, I just wanted to apologize for...what I said. It's been a really long day and I just sort a...lost it I guess. I didn't mean it."

"What didn't you mean? The part where I'm a huge burden and you wish you would've had a different choice? Or the part where you said you weren't my actual father?" you state. " As for the second part, you aren't very subtle. You cry and yell a lot. Really, a lot."

He narrows his eyes at you. Almost as odd as yours but his are just a very deep blue. Now that you look at him, there never was a huge resemblance, at least not to you. His face is more narrow than yours but you always assumed it was just because he's much older and would have more characteristically defined features. Besides, not all kids look like their parents, why couldn't you be one of those kids? Maybe you are. You aren't really sure anymore. Everything is flawed, he never really said anything about any blood relation between you two, neither affirming or denying it.

"I don't need your sarcasm," he scoffs. "I know I messed up. Be angry all you want, I apologized and that sounds enough to me." He stands up, ready to leave you with your knitting.

"You're being a tool," you blurt while sticking your tongue out at stops and turns to look at you, his face red either from anger or embarrassment.

"Rose, where'd you hear that from?" he demands.

"From that friend of yours. The guy that came over that one time...um, Mr. Captor?" you explain. His face just gets more red. " For being friends, you guys sure say a lot of Awful things to each other. Why are you friends with someone who doesn't listen to you? Is that what having friends at your age is like?"

"He's not my friend!" he yells, stomping his foot for emphasis." He is someone I have the unfortunate luck a working with. And stop reading the psychology books, they're givin you really weird questions."

"You can't tell me what to do," you scoff. "You said it yourself, you aren't my dad, just my begrudging guardian."

"Yes I certainly won the jackpot with you," he sneers then catches himself," Rose I'm not, going to repeat what I said earlier. Begrudging or not, you are under my jurisdiction, new word in case you didn't learn that one, means I'm in charge until you are old enough. End of discussion."

"So this is a dictatorship?"

"Stop learning words from Captor!" he orders as he leaves your room. "Clean up this place! This is no way to keep your quarters!"

"I'm not a cadet!" you yell as he slams your door.

"Go to sleep!" he replies with the same volume.

"It's barely seven!" you counter and he just growls, finally stomping away from your room. You certainly have a lot to deal with when he's around. Now you have to devise a new way to address him. You've called him dad since as far back as you can remember but you're not sure if he'll be okay with that now.

You abandon your knitting, Jaspers having wrapped himself around the mess, and hop off your bed to grab something from beneath. You pull out your diary, a handy little journal in which you've kept record since you learned to write. Most of the first entries are widely set apart, scrawly and really ridiculous. One of these entries include losing one of your socks and 'dad' making you root for it around the house until you found it. You can't say he isn't eccentric.

Another entry speaks about the time a woman came to take care of you while your guardian was away. She was very bubbly and nice, at least she really seemed like it, but you felt she was hiding something. She told you about some creatures, which you don't remember much of, but you know she gave a huge book on them. She also told you "Keep it a secret from Eridan, he won't understand and lie to you." That's all she said. At least what you wrote.

You open up the diary to a clean page, a pen tucked in neatly there as well. This might be the only thing you care enough to keep somewhat orderly. You pick up the pen, a very shiny and new looking pen, and begin writing about your day. You begin with the date of course, and then write your entry.

"Today, dad blew a gasket. I think he's actually really upset about something, but I can't figure out what. Also, during his lapse, he confirmed my suspicions that we are not in fact related. At least it doesn't seem so. He's acting cagey, like he did a few years ago when he found a few of my books on majyks and confiscated them. I can't seem to find them anywhere, and when asked he wouldn't answer.

I wonder what I should call him since dad doesn't seem appropriate anymore. I also found it weird that he wouldn't talk about why he's the one entrusted with my care. Why was he so fine with it, maybe even good at acting as a parent and all of a sudden, just, not? Things don't add up, but maybe I'll get some answers once I leave this house. He did promise I could go to public school. Everything is filled out, he can't back out. I won't let him."

You sign with your full name, much like you've done in the past, ending the page with a precise and lovely printed name you detest. Rosalind Ampora.

You wrinkle your nose and choose a small corner of the page to write a small but legible name Rose Lalonde, a name you've used to speak with a friend of yours who lives too far to visit. You really should write to him again, he's a great friend, even through his antics.

Author's note:

this is a very odd au I've been tinkering around with for a while in which certain trolls are the guardians of the kids. There really is no specifications, some of them just work for a type of clash and storyline.

This is sort of a side fanfiction, that I probably won't pay much attention to, but may at some point have a conclusion. It's not meant to be terribly long, so it should be fine in case you need something to read.

This will be mostly concentrating around Rose and Eridan, their views on magic to be more precise though it will also deal with their odd relationship in this story. There won't be any major shipping either, probably none, as I said, this deals with the destructive force of magic, opposing points of views and even a kind of family order for lack of better terms.